


Perfection

by spunlikesugar



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Male Solo, Masturbation, Other, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Steve explores his new body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunlikesugar/pseuds/spunlikesugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve likes the press of his own body under the heel of his other hand, likes knowing what perfection feels like wrapped in his skin.</p><p>[AKA Steve explores his new body after the serum.<br/>AKA Steve masturbates and thinks about how he's changed, that's it lol PWP]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> My friend mentioned to me a few hours ago that she didn't really enjoy a particular pairing involving Steve Rogers, and out of nowhere it came to me and I said:
> 
>  
> 
> _you know what I'd like to see?_  
>  _some steve/self_  
>  _like imagine coming out of that machine_  
>  _and being all buff and tall_  
>  _and needing to get used to your own body_  
>  _and just like_  
>  _trailing your fingers over all the new muscles_  
>   
>  For some reason I then just HAD to write it. And so now you have this pretty non-graphic PWP, lmao enjoy.

Everything is different, now. He doesn’t fit in spaces he used to and he keeps misjudging distances and gaps and getting himself wedged in places he no longer fits. It’s only awkward when he’s trying to sit next to someone or to squeeze past them in a hallway. If it’s a man, he never says anything. If it’s a woman, she’s either frightened, annoyed or she bats her eyes at him, and either way he gets so flustered that he’s not sure what to do.

Overall, it’s a good thing. Of course it is. Who doesn’t want to be six feet tall and overlaid with a thick layer of muscle? It’s everything he’d ever dreamed about when he’d spent hours at home trying to get his arms to stretch him up into one measly push-up. He can do as many as he wants now. He’s sure he could go for hours, if he wanted to. 

And he’s sure now that he could get girls, if he wanted to. If he tried. The problem is that he didn’t grow up in this body and doesn’t know how to inhabit it yet, so he still gets uncomfortable when a woman talks to him. It’s weird that they’re looking up instead of down, and they always stand so close to him, seemingly expecting him to do…something, and he has no idea how to go about any of it. Should he…or perhaps he might…what, exactly?

He hadn’t minded being a virgin _before_ (or had he? It’s hard to remember now whether that was a choice he’d made or one made _for him_ , but either way things are different now). The problem now is that no-one expects that of him. People look at him, at his face, and his frame, and they think that he’s a guy with a lot of experience when in fact he doesn’t even know how to kiss a lady, let alone anything further. It’s a lot of pressure. He’s expected to perform and he has no idea what he’s doing. No idea even how this new body works.

So he’s in his narrow military bed one night after a show in a town whose name he can’t remember and he thinks, _maybe I should find out._ It’s a rare moment when he’s alone, but even then it feels like he’s doing something dangerous. It’s like he’s doing something wrong and that simultaneously makes him feel better and worse because he’s afraid of getting caught but then that’s half the thrill, isn’t it?

At first he doesn’t even take off his clothes, just sort of…runs his hands over his body, letting fingertips skim over the shirt tightly pulled against his chest. It’s filled out with firm muscle and he can feel the press of his fingers as they sink into the flesh. He can’t feel his ribs through his chest anymore, not until he gets lower and they jut out ever so slightly over the tightly bound abdominal muscles lining his stomach. Everything is taut but there aren’t any hollows like there used to be, nothing concave except his belly button.

It’s almost like touching a stranger. Can this really be his body? 

He yanks up his white t-shirt, gets his hands underneath and pushes his palms up against his skin. It’s warm, comparatively, and he breaks out in goosebumps as the coldness of his extremities presses up against his heart. He leaves his left hand on his ribs and sends the other further up. His nipple has tightened from the cold, and this part, this is the same. So he touches it, gently, and jolts a little from the feeling, because he’s forgotten what it’s like to be touched this way – he hasn’t done it since, well, since he changed. 

The bed creaks when he moves and he shifts down a little, squares his shoulders so that they’re pressed firmly into the frame and touches it again. It feels good but _gosh, his fingers really are chilly,_ this room must be colder than he thought. So he makes sure to warm them against his chest and his belly before he gets them down under his waistband. He hasn’t really been thinking about anything while doing this, so his dick is only half hard, and that part of him is still the same too. 

He shimmies his pants off and slips his legs back under the covers, touching the lines where his hips indent into a V, pointing down to where his legs meet his body, and he can’t even _think_ about what he’s doing because this isn’t good of him, he should be sleeping to prepare for tomorrow, not messing around feeling himself up. There’s an empty bed in here, any moment a late arrival might be assigned to this room and walk in here and see him. 

Then there’s the fact that this feels like he’s touching someone else, and that someone certainly isn’t a woman. It’s strange to feel so at odds with your own body, but it’s like he’s had his brain transplanted into someone new and even the sensations feel different, stronger, like electricity is buzzing underneath his skin. 

His thighs are thick with muscle now too, and he gets his hands halfway down them before he pulls them back up. He wraps his hand around his dick and pulls on it absently, this part being so familiar that he ends up focussing on the alien sensation of smooth muscle shifting under his other hand as he moves. 

It feels great; all of it. He hadn’t realised how much he missed _this_ until he’d pushed his hand back down to the base of his erection and felt pleasure crawl up through his belly and out to his toes. And he likes the press of his body under the heel of his other hand, likes knowing what perfection feels like wrapped in his skin. 

When it hits him he tries not to move too much _(the bed squeaks, there are people next door)_ , but he can’t help his toes curling and his head tipping back and crushing the lower couple of inches of pillow between the back of his neck and his shoulders. This part too is the same as it’s ever been, but it’s more intense, and it rose up faster, more suddenly, like a tidal wave or an earthquake or some other devastating natural disaster that he can’t think of right now because his brain feels like scrambled eggs. He wipes away his come from the contours of his new body, gets his pants on again, and lies back down, sleepy, and thinks.

Life is never easy. Everyone has their struggles and he knows that – life was hard before, and life is hard now, after, in totally different ways. To possess what he has now requires certain sacrifices from him, and he knows he can never go back to the way things were, but he also knows that were the choice offered to him again, he would take it. This piece of perfection, this pristine temple of flesh and blood is his, and he’ll learn to live in it. 

Might as well have a little fun sometimes doing it.


End file.
